Deliverance
by nrynmrth
Summary: They greet death in each other's arms, and it's simultaneously beautiful and terrible and desperate and breathtaking as the shockwave hits them and Scarif is obliterated. Jyn and Cassian at the end.


A/N: So this is my first Star Wars fic, and it's inspired by the ending of the latest movie, Rogue One (which was amazing and so full of feels it kills me). Because it's inspired by said movie, there will be SPOILERS. That being said, this is my newest ship and I'm so dead because my brain can't let go of possibilities. I pretty much wrote this in one sitting with no edits, so be warned. (also why is Cassian not listed as a character I dislike this very much)

Disclaimer: Star Wars is too amazingly heartwrenching to ever be mine.

* * *

Jyn's standing at the console at the top of the control tower, waiting for the plans to send, when the Death Star fires on Scarif. The resulting explosion knocks her off her feet, launching her through the air until she's dangling two hundred meters off the ground and tearing the muscles in her arms further. Slowly, painfully, she pulls herself up, chanting in her mind, ' _for Cassian, for my father, for the Alliance, for freedom'_ in her head until she's standing on the platform once more and Orson Krennic is aiming a blaster at her chest.

' _It's over,'_ she thinks, and all she can manage is a prayer that the plans have gone through so that she can die in peace before Cassian 'You-thought-I-was-dead-didn't-you' Andor shows up and shoots the director in the chest.

They stand for a moment, frozen as Krennic collapses, shock etched on his harsh features. There is a gaping wound in his chest, courtesy of Cassian's blaster, but all Cassian's looking at is Jyn and the transmission console and praying, _hoping_ that the plans got through because it means that the sacrifice of the entire Rogue One crew would not have been in vain.

And then Jyn is screaming in hatred and pain and confusion, all the energy in her body directed at the fallen man on the platform. Cassian catches her around the waist, holding her tightly even though it makes every nerve in his body cry out in pain, desperately murmuring to her _'it's not worth it, Jyn, leave him, he's not worth it'_ until she listens, finally, stilling as she sends one last hate-filled glare at the man responsible for the destruction of her family.

Cassian sags against her, and guilt rushes through her as she takes in the extent of his wounds. She wraps an arm around his waist, taking his weight and glancing into his eyes in half-apology half-thanks. He slings an arm over her shoulder in response and they make their way to the lift that will take them to Scarif's beach, where they know instinctively that they will find the bodies of their crew – of Bodhi and Baze and Chirrut and the soldiers that came with them on this suicide mission.

They're both wounded beyond belief, and their limbs moan in pain as they step into the lift. She's torn nearly all the muscles in her back and arms from her desperate climbing and he's got broken ribs and a hole in his side from the blaster shot and his subsequent fall, but still they won't let go of each other, as if they're the only thing tying each other to life.

They make their way down the lift in silence, supporting each other all the way. They can't stand alone, they rely on each other in every way – even though her arm around his waist sends shooting pains through his blaster wound and his arm over her shoulder is torture on her abused muscles.

Stepping out of the lift and onto the beach is an experience in and of itself. The entire tower is listing dangerously – Jyn winces at this, somehow thinking through a haze of pain, ' _we were up there not five minutes ago'_ – but the beach is white sand and waves are lapping gently at the shore, untouched by the destruction that rages around it.

Jyn and Cassian collapse on the beach, and somehow in the corners of her mind Jyn dredges up enough sense to try to lower him to the ground as gently as possible. She's wheezing from the effort, her back and arms screaming in pain, but all either of them can do is gasp out half-sobs as the sand pools around them and the bright light on the horizon comes ever closer.

Neither of them really know who reaches out first, but somehow their hands are brushing and then their fingers are linking and they're holding hands there on the beach of a half-destroyed planet, wounded to the brink of death as the agent of their destruction approaches.

They're beautiful and tragic together, kneeling in the sand, covered in their own blood and destined for death. She looks at him, at his aristocratic features and his kind eyes, and whispers his name, tasting the syllables as they escape. " _Cassian._ " She turns the word over in her mouth, making it both recognizable to him and not. "Cassian," she says again, her voice lower and nearly a sigh.

"Jyn," he returns, the syllable somehow stretched until it's beautiful and graceful and soft the way she is not. Her name is music in his mouth, and he thinks it's one of the loveliest words he's ever said, almost as lovely as her weary and bloodstained face.

They're united, now, all traces of animosity or awkwardness lost in the face of shared death. They will die beside each other, and that's okay because they're all the other has left anyway, for all that they've known each other for only a few short days.

' _I could have loved you, in another world,'_ they think, and though they never speak the thought aloud, it is visible in both their eyes as they look at each other, dark eyes meeting stormy blue-green.

She leans forward, then, her lips brushing his ear in a beautiful mockery of a kiss and whispering to him, "I am proud to have fought beside you, Cassian Andor.

He nearly weeps at the rawness of her voice, at the tone that conveys grief and loss and pain and acceptance all in one. "As I am proud to have fought beside you, Jyn Erso." His voice is as rough as hers, raspy with the same grief and loss and pain and acceptance, and his scruff is rough against her cheek.

"Your father would be proud," he tells her softly, and he feels more than sees the tears that film over her eyes as he says the words.

They're embracing, now, there on that once-beautiful beach, her cheek against his and his face in the crook of her neck. Their hands are still linked, free arms holding them to each other as though letting each other go is impossible. And perhaps it is, because they are cemented together by blood and sweat and tears and grime and who knows what else.

The shockwave is almost upon them and they cling to each other even more, bodies pressed together and anchoring each other to _something_ that isn't life, because they're practically dead anyway. It's fitting, somehow, that this is how they meet their end. Their mission is done, the crew they came with dead to a one; they're alone on this beach as they face destruction. They're kindred souls, alone in the world and hurting and indifferent to all except their cause.

Then the light reaches them and they greet death in each other's arms, and it's simultaneously beautiful and terrible and desperate and breathtaking as the shockwave hits them and Scarif is obliterated.


End file.
